‘And the car thefts?’ the boss asked.
Shap peered over Butchers’ shoulder. ‘Can’t keep his hands off them. And last time he was going after Beemers. Stuff worth nicking. Known associate, Jeremy Gleason.’
Butchers pulled up Gleason’s record. Small time stuff, couldn’t compete with Stone. Same address. The two were obviously bosom buddies.
The boss was nodding; she looked keen. ‘Visiting time?’ Butchers offered.
The maisonettes weren’t the worst Butchers had seen but they were probably skimming the building regs when they were put up. The cheap materials and no-frills design showed in the dimensions; he bet the walls were paper thin, the residents could probably hear the neighbours fart. They’d be damp too, likely as not, the flat roofs almost impossible to seal from the endless Manchester rain.
Butchers liked his DIY, knew about making something sound, something to be proud of. Even the old council houses, the first ones, had been put up with proper brick; not breezeblocks and plaster board and a lick of paint like this lot were.
The place was depressing: cracked glass in some doors, boarded-up windows here and there, frantic with graffiti and a shower of litter all about the place: carrier bags and take-away food trays, soft-drink cans and crisp packets wherever he looked. The bright winter sunlight glanced off fragments of glass that were sprinkled along the pathways. Time was people would have swept up, thought Butchers, but no one bothered anymore.
Shap knocked loudly on the door. Butchers rocked lightly on his heels, waiting for an answer, his throat suddenly dry Come on, come on.
Lee Stone answered the door, almost seemed to be expecting them. Cocksure in his manner, he stood aside when Butchers asked if they could come in. Stone’s sidekick Gleason was nervier; a tall, thin man with a shaven head, his face paled as they walked into the sitting room. The underfloor heating made the place stifling, especially with the glare of the sun coming in. There was the sweet smell of mould and fried food in the air. Butchers spotted a telltale patch of mottled plaster in one corner of the ceiling.
Butchers listened as Shap explained the background to their visit. ‘We’re particularly interested in the hours between 10 p.m. on Monday night and 10 a.m. on Tuesday morning,’ said Shap.
Stone was sitting back on the couch, legs spread wide. His bristly red hair was cut short, he had a bullet-shaped head, thick neck and ginger eyelashes. His eyes were an insipid blue. ‘Monday. Watched the box, went to bed.’
